


impending death is the only sign of life, im throwing hail mary's till i die

by Imworriedsomeonesgoingtofindthisaccount



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Fighting, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Violence, Wow, consent comes like midway, extremely dubious consent firstly, genuine pain, god grant me the strength to stop writing degenerate fiction, idk - Freeform, malcolm is straight, okay, so dubious it doesnt exist really, there's a whole thing, until then im gonna keep doing what i do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22838449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imworriedsomeonesgoingtofindthisaccount/pseuds/Imworriedsomeonesgoingtofindthisaccount
Summary: Malcolm pays someone to beat him up. Said someone then proceeds to brutally fuck him.---DEAD FUCKING DOVE BY THE WAY
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 66





	impending death is the only sign of life, im throwing hail mary's till i die

**Author's Note:**

> title is from a brockhampton track
> 
> Fixed some formatting issues and minor mistakes. There are undoubtedly more. I appreciate these being pointed out

They circle each other slowly, Mason in a classic guard, tight with no openings, Malcolm in a lax stance, holding both hands out in front of him. 

"I'm not going to go easy on you, I hope you understand." Malcolm's eyes are bright with humour as he says it and Mason smiles reflexively.

"Kind of unusual, that a client would want to fight back, sure- but you don't need to worry about me. You're lucky you got sent someone who's trained."

"Boxing, I see."

Mason tests the distance between them with a jab. "Yep. And other stuff as well."

Malcolm appraises him slowly, all six some feet of him and tries, "Judo?"

"Two for two." Mason lunges forward to catch a grip on his collar and the waistband of his sweatpants and succeeds in pulling them both roughly to the floor, attempting to take his back, but Malcolm, surprisingly flexible, struggles and wriggles out of his grip, putting a safe distance between them in seconds. 

"Okay-" Malcolm doesn't finish his sentence or wait for Mason to figure out what just happened before he rushes forward and lands a knee in his torso, avoiding a debilitating liver shot and instead aiming just slightly above. The force behind the knee is still enough to wind him, though. 

"Wow," Mason gasps, staggering back a couple of steps, looking at his client with new eyes. He's of pretty average height, and skinny. Actually looks like he barely eats. But he's gotta be hiding muscles under that Harvard sweatshirt. Mason internally sighs, massaging his rib as they resume pacing slowly around each other. 

The one time he's actually interested in what a customer looks like naked, he's not gonna get to see. Because Malcolm Bright only wants _this_. Seems pretty straight too, if Mason's instinct is correct- yet he's still happy to receive his kicks from a man. A pure masochist. 

Mason almost respects it. 

Malcolm smooths a stray strand of hair back over his head, checking the pulse on his neck quickly after. 87. Slightly elevated, but nowhere near where he wants to be. He's relaxed. Malcolm was relieved when he was sent a guy who looked like he could hold his own, but now he's worried that he'll actually-

Malcolm's head whips to the side with the force of the slap. 

"Huh-" His voice is cut off with a heavy blow to the stomach that has him curling in on himself immediately. He falls to his knees and wheezes. He couldn't even tell if that was a punch or a kick. 

Immediately, Mason drops down next to him, plants a firm hand on his shoulder. "We good?" He asks, deeply concerned. 

"I'm good." 

Mason's taken aback by the pained but toothy grin he receives. A genuine smile. Exhilarated. Exhilarating. 

Malcolm hooks his neck with the crook of his arm, and he's still starstruck when he's thrown to the ground. He swings a knee over Mason side, positioning himself perfectly to start raining down punches. Mason turns his head so that the first fist glances off of his cheekbones and blocks the other with his forearm before it can land. 

"Uh-uh, honey," he grunts, pushing Malcolm off of him with pure strength. "This face is my business."

Malcolm skitters back, crouched like a tiger, chest heaving. Mason glances down at Malcolm's crotch then back up to his face. Malcolm is definitely excited, but at the same time he's not even hard. 

"You freak," Mason states frankly, with no small amount of wonder. 

Malcolm frowns, bringing two fingers up to his pulse again. "I would assume that your job would mean that you're used to that." 134. And rising.

"No," Mason, says shaking his head after throwing out a few test jabs. "You're a special brand of freak I rarely get to see."

Malcolm hums then throws out a surprise round kick, which Mason dodges easily. The wasted momentum means that he quickly loses his footing, and Mason takes the opportunity to kick his leg out from under him, sending Malcolm tumbling. Mason doesn't pursue him though, and instead resumes his explanation as Malcolm jumps to his feet. 

"You see, most people who ask for me, or one of my colleagues, they assume that I would be a sex worker first, and dom second. Even vice versa, there's always a sexual element to my sessions. Most don't want to be hit," he punctuates the word by batting away a nasty open handed thrust and backhanding him in two smooth movements. "Unless they're half naked, bound and/or gagged first. Because then they can get off to it. A slap in a sweatshirt and pants just hurts."

Malcolm is barely listening, and doesn't even have to check his pulse to know that yeah, the adrenaline has kicked in. 

"Kind of a bummer for someone like me, who just likes hurting people." He says it like he's talking about yesterday's weather. 

Malcolm touches at his lip, realizes that the last slap must have caused his teeth to cut him. He's bleeding. He smiles, and it hurts. 

He tries a chop to his neck, absolutely not one to give up, but hits air and stumbles forwards as he's pushed from behind. 

"But you- I mean, you gotta be 170 lbs sopping wet, but you're still coming at me. You... You just like the pain for the sake of the  _ pain _ . You just like to lose."

Mason lands another kick precisely where he had punched him before, and relishes the groan he's forced from Malcolm's lips. 

For the second time, Malcolm drops to his knees physically unable to straighten out for the moment. 

"I could probably do anything to you, and you'd be okay with it."

Malcolm groans again, unable to talk, and Mason hauls him up by the collar and sets him on his feet. Almost immediately Malcolm doubles over again and, Mason delivers another cruel slap to the face, then another on the other cheek. Malcolm watches the blood drip slowly from his lip onto the wooden tiling, stunned, and suddenly he's knocked down, and caught by his sweatshirt just before his body can hit the ground. He squirms to the best of his ability, his bare feet sliding frantically on the hardwood floor, helplessly. 

  
  


Without warning, Mason pushes him into the hardwood, a knee on the small of his back and his arm wrenched back so suddenly and painfully he yells out. 

"That was a good sound," Mason breathes, panting. He twists Malcolm's arm a little bit more, and elicits a strangled groan. 

Helpless, Malcolm thinks. Goddamn helpless. Sure, the adrenaline's good, but  _ this? _ This feeling is something else.

"Okay- Okay. I've lost," Malcolm gets out. 

"Well, yeah, buddy," Mason agrees in a condescending tone, moving his knee to the side of his ribs, keeping the strain on Malcolm's shoulder while sliding up so that he's straddling Malcolm's waist. 

In this position Mason is so oppressively heavy it's hard to breath. He couldn't move even if he tried. He's completely… 

"You've lost, but-" Mason shifts down his body so he can lean down and talk next to his ear. "We are not done my friend."

Malcolm shuts his eyes slowly. Rather unethical. Doms usually took their rules seriously, and one of those most closely held was the one about listening to your subs. Then again, he vaguely remembers Mason's earlier words. Something something ' _ someone like me, who just likes hurting people'.  _

It does take a genius to get paid doing something you'd do for free. In his state he's finding it hard to remember who exactly said that, but, he figures, this guy's probably glad that he can inflict genuine hurt on someone without them screaming "please, daddy more". 

After all it's not like he's  enjoying  this. A cousin to enjoyment maybe. Relief? Not quite. In the same family but not at all the same. It's something deeper. Darker. Malcolm's not too interested in trying to analyze that right now, but Mason's easy to understand. 

He  _ just likes hurting people.  _ And Malcolm, who'll take anything he does without calling the police and still without actually  _ liking _ it is probably the perfect candidate. A pure sadist. 

Then he feels something against his ass that halts his entire train of thought.

Mason breathes hard and pins Malcolm's wrist down by his waist, pinning the other high on his back. 

"Wait," Malcolm stammers, and Mason can tell that he's acutely aware of his half-hard on pressing on the small of his back. 

"Wait. You're mistaken." Malcolm tries again, trying to sound less freaked and more amicable. "I mean, I know what you do, but I didn't pay for this. In fact, I specifically asked-"

"Well, Malcolm, that's why I'm doing it," he states, matter of fact, releasing the hand by his waist and reaching under his sweatshirt. 

Malcolm chokes and attempts to jerk away from the intruding hand, failing miserably. "Well, I'm flattered and everything-" And Mason finds it cute, how Malcolm pretends not to have heard what he said, "But I'm-"

"Not interested in men?" Mason finishes his sentence distractedly, pulling his Harvard sweater way up and exposing his pale skin to the cold hardwood. He runs his hand up the goose-fleshed skin. Muscled. As he expected. 

"You'd rather I didn't fuck you because… what, because I'm a man? Listen, men, women, that's irrelevant. Think of it like this. Sex is a tool. It's a thing. And it can make people feel good, or-" He's hard now. Fully. It's been a while, honestly. 

"Not good." He yanks both the pants and boxer-briefs down to Malcolm's knees while keeping a firm grip on his twisted arm.

Malcolm yelps but otherwise doesn't say anything, mind racing and decides to save his energy for struggling, which he has resumed anew. But Mason's weight above him is effectively keeping him where he is, and fucking hell, if he felt helpless before, he's feeling something else now. What's more helpless than helpless?

"It's nothing really too different to what we've been doing. Basically. Only you've never experienced this before so... This is gonna hurt," Mason adds  _ as  _ he inserts a dry thumb into Malcolm's thoroughly unprepared hole. 

_ "Huh."  _ Malcolm's groan of unadulterated agony first as he pushes it in, then as he moves it in, and out, it only serves to make Mason's blood rush loudly in his ears, his pulse fluttering so quickly he begins to rush, anxious to get to the main show. 

Mason was right. He has never felt anything like that before. The intrusion is so painful his vision whites out for a second before he snaps back to reality and looks for anything he could use within arms reach,  _ anything _ that could make it stop. 

Another finger. More painful, but he doesn't lose focus this time. His body is impossibly adjusting, even if minutely. 

Of course there's nothing. He's trapped. His first instinct is to beg but he knows that would do nothing except spur him on. He could do the opposite, pretend like it's doing something for him, but he doesn't have the faith that even he could act his way through this,  _ that's _ how consuming the pain is. And he somehow gets the sense that anything less than an Oscar worthy performance would have Mason realise the attempt at reverse psychology and then he'd probably just make it worse for his efforts. 

So Malcolm, sweating and moaning, just swallows dryly and lays there. That high pain tolerance he was so proud of seems to have flown out of the window. 

The third finger is easier than the second and Malcolm realises remotely that he must be bleeding. 

Mason spits on his hand twice and reaches into his gym shorts, slicking up his up-til-then untouched dick, not because he cares about it feeling better for Malcolm, since saliva as a lubricant really only makes a difference for the one who's  _ not _ being fucked- but because he really wants to come. He actually does.

The uncontrollable shivers of pain, the stony silence, unbroken save for the now almost inaudible groans of protest… it's turning him on. 

He wants to fuck him, he wants to hear that scream again, and he wants to come inside him, with Malcolm completely aware that he can't do anything about it. 

He lines his cock up to his only slightly stretched opening, leaning heavily on Malcolm's twisted arm, his other hand planted by his head. With a droll, "I'd tell you to relax, but.", he pushes in. 

This time, he does it slow, and savors the way Malcolm slams his own head against the floor, grinding his forehead down into the wood desperately, tendons in his neck stretched taut, his entire body tensed as tight as a bowstring.

Before he's even halfway in, Malcolm does actually black out in pain, only realizing that that must have been the case when his head is sharply yanked back by his hair, almost breaking his arm he's pretty sure, and he can feel that Mason's completely inside him. 

It's strange but… He feels… 

He relaxes. 

Not good. Most definitely, he doesn't feel good. Mason has started moving now, and the pain is absolutely fucking there and his neurons, they're screaming but now, that's all secondary. 

He lost. 

The overwhelming feeling is that he lost. He can't do anything now. More than helpless. Incapable. Not like he can think his way out of this. Not like he can pick up the phone and ask Gil or Dani (or his father) to come save him (not like he would). 

It's all over. Not literally of course, it still fucking hurts. But he doesn't have to fight. There's no point. He just has to… Stay down and take it. No more fighting.

Relief? Not quite. Something deeper. Darker. But there's something there. Not all agony. Makes him remember why he bought Mason's time in the first place.

Some measure of time later characterised only by the torture and the torturously slow passing of said time, Mason thrusts so harshly and so deeply that Malcolm screams into the floor, his voice breaking in places and tapering off into a powerless moan.

Mason shudders so violently that Malcolm shakes with it. 

\---

The wetness he leaves behind as he pulls out trickles down and onto the floor.

_ Now _ it's over.

Mason stands and puts himself back into his gym shorts, then he bends down and pulls Malcolm's pants back up and his sweatshirt down.

"We're good?" He asks for the second time that hour. He rolls Malcolm onto his back, who whimpers from the movement.

"We're good," Mason decides, straightening up and looking down at Malcolm who's cracked an eye open, hair sticking to his damp forehead.

"I actually went over, so I'm gonna let myself out now.That entire region of your body's gonna hurt for a few days. Maybe a week. You should probably lay there for as long as you want to. Use ice. Don't eat spicy foods."

He walks around into his kitchen, disappearing from Malcolm's line of sight,and Malcolm doesn't try to crane his head. He hears the fridge open and close, the breaking of a bottle cap seal, then footsteps and his apartment door opening. He shuts his eye again and breathes.

"I left my card in that box of yours."

Then the door shuts.

\----

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


\----

Months later, Malcolm sits up in bed and unbuckles his wrist cuffs. He knows without looking in a mirror that the shadows under his eyes will be bigger and darker than they had been when he went to bed.

In fact he actively avoids looking at his reflection as he walks around his frustratingly shiny apartment, closing his eyes as he grabs a sparkling water from the fridge, looking up at the ceiling as he drinks it.

As he stretches, his eyes land on his daily affirmations.

He picks one out at random.

_ You are in control. You are master of your own reality. _

His teeth grind as his mind immediately brings up an image of his father, lying comatose in a hospital bed. Entirely possible that he just… doesn't wake up. Entirely po-

Malcolm quite suddenly throws the offensive card across the room in fury, before remembering that, mornings are the most important time of day. A bad mood... He sighs. A bad mood in the morning means a bad mood all day.

_ Calm down. Pick another.  _He doesn't know who's voice that is in his head, but it certainly sounds a lot calmer than he feels. He picks another.

_ Mason. Call me at (xxx)xxx-xxxx _

He stares at it for a long moment, before picking up his phone.

**Author's Note:**

> Just reread this and confirmed that yah im a peice of shit ✋🏽🙄 *dialling 116 123*
> 
> Im getting help okay stay out of my tumblr @ like 😭 i thought i was safe here


End file.
